The cruiser's gig carried Keating to the wharf, the crew tossed their
oars and the boatswain touched his cap and asked, mechanically,
"Shall I return to the ship, sir?"
Channing, stretched on the beach, with his back to a palm-tree,
observed the approach of Keating with cheerful approbation.
"It is gratifying to me," he said, "to see the press treated with
such consideration. You came in just like Cleopatra in her barge. If
the flag had been flying, and you hadn't steered so badly, I should
have thought you were at least an admiral. How many guns does the
British Navy give a Consolidated Press reporter when he comes over
the side?"
Keating dropped to the sand and, crossing his legs under him, began
tossing shells at the water.
"They gave this one a damned good breakfast," he said, "and some very
excellent white wine. Of course, the ice-machine was broken, it
always is, but then Chablis never should be iced, if it's the real
thing."
"Chablis! Ice! Hah!" snorted Channing. "Listen to him! Do you know
what I had for breakfast?"
Keating turned away uncomfortably and looked toward the ships in the
harbor.
"Well, never mind," said Channing, yawning luxuriously.
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